


Strange Things Have Happened

by CyberSearcher



Series: Warforged!Percy AU [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: But we're all in on the it, Dark Horse Comics, Gen, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Nobody important don't worry, Pre-Stream (Critical Role), Warforge!Percy, cause, y'know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23369839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyberSearcher/pseuds/CyberSearcher
Summary: When a white-haired human wanders in from the blighted wastelands, the small village is warry but says nothing. The cult of devil worshipers, however, notice that this human possesses powers that may be supernatural. A charm that brings him favor with the most stubborn inn keep. Whispers and shadows that come as he sleeps.
Series: Warforged!Percy AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669327
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Strange Things Have Happened

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows more of the comics canon but re-written a bit to imply that Percy stayed a few more days before making his moves and some other minor changes.

Despite their regular contact with the demonic, nobody in their quiet village of Jorenn ever witnessed the full form of a devil or demon. It was always a vision in the depth of sleep, or a whisper in the ear as they chanted around bonfire altars. Come next few weeks, the highest members of the cult would be the first to be graced with that opportunity. The more anxious, cautious or newly initiated expressed their worry. Stories of rituals gone wrong were common subjects for wandering minstrels and bards. 

The higher cultists reaffirmed that they had perfected the ritual and that they had followed every one of the instructions bestowed to them. No maiden would find themselves possessed by legions of imps. Furniture wouldn’t fly across the rooms of their homes. 

But the new stranger brought back these worries in full force. Wanderers were hardly welcomed to the town - there was only a single inn that catered to the rare traveling merchant - and even more so, less than a week before the ritual. They were still erasing what evidence was left from their last sacrifice, so everyone was keeping vigil on this new human.

This new human, however, immediately struck those who observed him as odd. 

With his slightly off gait in his step, skittish eyes that turn to daggers if you walked too close and constant fidgeting under his coat, he was the talk of taverns and women at washracks. He had the drapings of a nobleman - one man swore his glasses were made of real gold - but no noble of any standing would walk across a blight-ridden landscape without an escort of guards. His boots may have been fine at some point but had the wear of something that had walked many miles. 

Brian the Inkeep was the first to witness the stranger up close. “Whaddya be in need?” He said in his shrewd voice. 

“I request a single room to stay in, I’ve been told that this is the only place of respite in your village.” He stated in a clipped yet flourished tone. 

“Sure, we got one open,” Brian pulled up a ledger and a charcoal stick he licked the tip of, “who do I put it down for?”

“Percy.”

The bearded man paused, waiting for a surname. 

“Just Percy, fair innkeeper.” The human repeated. 

Brian wrote it down without question but took another glance at the stranger again. 

A blue coat with long sleeves, a pale blue cravat wrapped tight around his neck and a popped collar rimmed with dark fur to contrast a ghostly shock of pure white hair. Shadows set heavy under his keep blue eyes. His belt was also decorated with an array of tools, pouches and some sort of scabbard, but no sword peeked out from under the man's coat. Something else struck Brian, the same sense that came when standing around their circles in the dead of midnight. An uncanny sensation, brimming at the surface.

“Good sir, may I receive the keys to my room?” Percy’s voice cut through his thoughts. “It has been a long night and I do wish for a rest.” 

“Course. Ye still be needing to pay upfront, two gold for a night.” Brian stated. Normally, the price would be much less, however, they needed the material components for the next phases of their ritual. 

Percy blinked thoughtfully behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “I propose a bargain, fair inkeep; five gold for the week.” 

“Are ye tryin’ to barter with me, lad?” He asked. 

“I’m hoping we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement, yes,” Percy said. 

“If ye be stayin’ the week, that’ll be fifteen gold pieces.”

“And I don’t suppose breakfasts are included.” The white-haired stranger quipped. “My offer remains unchanged, I urge you to take it. With the nature of this town, it would be unwise to turn your nose up to any coin.” 

His words were smooth as if rehearsed for some grand play. Brian slowly nodded as Percy dropped the five gold coins into his palm. He guided the stranger up to his room and unlocked the door without another sidelong glance. The human smiled - were his teeth too white? Did his hair flutter in some unfelt breeze? - and gave a graceful bow before closing the door in the Inkeeps face.

Standing at the worn oak door, Brian found himself shaking off a blurry haze. The muddy sensation soon cleared, replaced with anger at being scammed by some wanderer. Then the fear came. 

He grabbed his cloak and dashed to their leaders' house. “High Cultist Mirida! There’s something ya need to be known about the stranger!”

She was sitting at her table, a small pork roast between her and the others she shared her homestead with. “Brian? You must have a good reason to be botherin’ us at the table.”

Even with sore knees and short of breath, he recounted the exchange. “It was magic, that white-haired fellow is! He calls ‘imself Percy, but he charmed me without liftin’ a finger! Bartered for a week's stay at the Inn! Somethin’ be wrong with ‘im. It be the ritual, it could’da called ‘im here.” 

Each of the residents exchanged concerned glances. “This man was able to sway someone so stubborn-hoofed as you?” Someone asked. 

“It’s true! I’da kicked him onto the street if I wasn’t scared of whatever else he could do.” Brian lamented. “What should we do about ‘im Mirida?” 

She nibbled at the prongs of her fork. “Nothing, all of you should keep your eyes out for him though. He could just have some gift for speech, magic or otherwise.”

“And what ‘bout the ritual?” He insisted. “What if we already called somethin’ over? What if this human is a devil in a mans skin?”

“Now you’re just being paranoid.” Mirida dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Be sure to hide your cloak and candles before daybreak.” 

**::::**

Now those in the village who participated in the cult watched this Percy much closer. Brian observed that he didn't leave his room the next day, not even for food or the restroom. When he dared to linger by the door or press his ear to the wood, he’d sometimes hear odd clicking sounds and consonant pacing. That night when Brian passed the door, the bearded man could hear clear mutterings from the other side. It reminded him of the same deep, rough language used in their chants. 

A nursemaid observed from her window that the single candle she could see from Percy’s window snuffed itself out despite the closed blinds. Squinting harder, she saw a shadow bowing over the flame as it fizzled out. 

The human came out the nest morning looking none the worse for wear. Brian kept his head down as he had his breakfast on the porch. But it didn’t stop Percy from asking his questions. 

“You’re a mining town, yes?” He asked.

Brian did a poor job at hiding his flinch, but settled quickly and nodded. 

“Excellent.” Percy smiled thinly. “Could you point me in the direction of your blacksmith and whosoever is in charge of managing the materials extracted from your mines? If you could be so kind, fair Inkeep.” 

“Course. Ah, down the road and to the left. By the great mound where we dump all the slag and boulders. Storehouse be right in front of it.” He said quickly.

The stranger narrowed his eyes at him briefly, searching for another deception. But Brian was far too intimidated from last night to risk lying to him again. “Very well, good day to your sir.”

People watched as Percy made his way down the street. Even those not initiated into the cult found the human with white hair an object of curiosity at best and a dangerous person not to be affiliated with at worst. 

Soon he found the blacksmith and the storehouse across the street. The forge was cold at the moment as Percy knocked at the door. A burly older man opened it, his expression turning from polite to wary at the sigh of the stranger. 

“Ah, what can I do for ya lad?” He asked. “If you’re lookin’ for arms, I’m afraid ya won’t find much quality here.” 

“No, no, just hoping to purchase some raw materials and make use of your tools for the afternoon. How much will, let’s say, about eight hours run?”

“About two gold for the time, as for material, depends on how much you use.” 

“Nothing much, about a kilogram of iron should do it. Give or take.” 

“Ah, that’ll just be three silver.” 

“A reasonable and generous price.” He fished around his coin purse before producing the money. The blacksmith watched him cautiously for any sleight of hand or signs of magic. Nothing seemed to grip his mind and no muddy haze came after he lead Percy to their storerooms.

“I can stoke the fires myself and I do prefer my privacy while I work. If that is no trouble?” He asked as he set down a pouch of iron nuggets and several of the blacksmith's smallest tools. From his coat, he produces more tiny tweezers and hammers, along with a strange metal block composed of two halves and pitted with neat lines of holes. 

“Alright.” But he took his time preparing to trade at the markets. 

The human did seem to work the bellows and heat the metal with the motions of someone who knew what they were doing. But he didn’t pout the iron into the mold of an ingot. Instead, choosing to drip the molten metal into the small divots in careful, measured amounts. 

The blacksmith realized something else that struck him as odder. Percy kept his coat on through the entire process, even if the presence of the blazing forge. Sweat still stuck to his brow and plastered his soot-stained hair to his forehead, but not once did the human stop to drape his coat onto a rack or even to push up his sleeves. 

He narrowed his eyes and hurried out of the forge. The man could feel eyes on him as he quickened his pace, but found it too difficult to pretend he wasn’t disturbed. Making his way to market, he leaned against a stand with long wool carpets hanging at either side. 

“I’m tellin’ ya Miss Yenna,” he whispered to the old lady with knitting needles in her lap, “there’s somethin’ off with that man. No sane man works in a forge dressed like it’s a crisp autumn stroll. And his hair, somethin’ be wrong about it. Lad’s his age don’t go white like that.”

“I did see from me window, shadowed things movin’ in his room at night.” She said sagely, not looking up from her project. “As for the hair, misery be the cause of such an odd thing. Ye see it in grooms when their brides run away on ships, but to turn every hair on his head like that… nothin’ good that be meanin’. Nothin’ good at all. You be safe, Ryan.”

“Yea, I’ll be sure to inform Miss Yenna ‘bout this.” The blacksmith nodded, taking his supplies and leaving to trade for the rest of his goods. 

Once he did return, Ryan found Percy infront of his now cold forge. All his odd trinkets tucked back into the folds of his coat. “Thank you so much for allowing me to use your facilities. Do not be offended when I say I need not return for a long time.” 

He had to hold back a sigh of relief, then hoped the white-haired man couldn’t tell he was relieved. “Good, ah, guess ye be on yer way then.” 

Ryan stuck out his hand for a shake, but Percy didn’t acknowledge it. Giving only a short, courteous bow before walking down the streets. He was about to return to his forge for lunch until he heard Percy calling out to him once again. 

“Good blacksmith, are you certain there are no other places for travelers to rest in this town? A bar perhaps? Or an elderly couple with barren rooms?” 

“Uh, no. But Miss Mirida always keeps her homestead open for those who be needin’ it.” Ryan worried that revealing this would put their leader in danger, but he didn’t want to risk falling under the same magic the stranger had used on Brian. Lest he reveal too much. 

But Percy seemed content with this, nodding once again before continuing on his way. 

**::::**

An explosion ripped through the air as a young girl fell face first into the carved dirt, cloak falling behind her like a burial shroud. No less than a foot beside her, the traveling doctor Ripley was shoved back into the crowd as several other cultists dashed after the killer who had ran back towards the village. 

“Doctor! Doctor are you alright?” Mirada cried. “Bastard, don’t let him escape! We’ll take care of him. And the rest of you, don’t let the ritual break!” 

Daggers and swords were drawn as the men and women split down alleyways to try and cut the stranger off. But many of them already had an idea of who they were chasing. “Pale faced, son of a whore!” Ryan screamed. “Where are you!” 

Even in the broad afternoon sunlight, there wasn’t any tell-tail flash of blue or bright shock of white hair. Then the blacksmith was suddenly thrown back, hearing a sharp crack over his shoulder and finally a white-hot burning through his chest. Holding a hand to his chest, his fingers slipped through a hole the size of a bead. The smell of burned flesh stinging his nose.

He fell to the ground, vision going black. The man beside him cried out in shock at the sound, giving Percy just enough time to escape again. 

Drawn by the echoing thunder, the rest of the cultists converged on their point. Reaching back for more bullets, he hastily began to reload just as the first hooded figure appeared at the mouth of the alley. There was a click, then a harsh ‘tink’ sound and as Percy looked down he saw that the bullet was too large for the barrel and had gotten stuck as a result. 

Cursing in celestial as he tried to escape through the open street behind him, more cultists were already blocking his exit. Panicking for any semblance of a plan, he decided to try a hail mary of an idea. 

He pulled the mask down over his face as smoke began to drip from the cuffs of his coat. Pouring out from his neck and his eyes, swirling around into the shadowed form he’d seen in his dreams. Some of the villagers actually took a step back at the sight, others dropped their weapons. 

“The doctor.” He growled. “She belongs to me. If you offer her willingly, then I will spare your people. If not, then I simply kill you all.” He kicked away the dead body and pointed his gun to their leader.

The crowd traded expressions of fear and doubt. The leader pulled back the hood of his cloak - a red-head with a curled mustache - and stared him down. “What’ll ye offer us in return then? Demon?”

“Demon?” Someone hissed. “It just be a trick, one of them mage parlor tricks!” 

“Really?” Percy questioned. 

Dragging the body up by the hair, he ripped off the man's shirt to show the semi-cauterized wound slowly beginning to start dripping blood down his chest. “Tell me, good sir, does this look like a parlor trick?” 

Someone cried out a name in the crowd. Percy grinned behind the mask and let the shadow behind him flare. For the sake of it, he subtly raised his mask and let the terrible caw of a crow fill the alley. More of the cultists back away, some of them murmuring the doctor's name. 

Even with that progress, he could feel the magic of the illusion beginning to wear. Percy knew he couldn’t fix his gun, and fight off these people, and find Ripley in any reasonable amount of time. Behind him, someone shoved one of the few vials of holy water the villagers kept into the hands of the cultists closest to the front. Taking aim, the man facing Percy grinned and the gunslinger had just a moment to spin around as the glass shattered across his face. The illusion was sucked back into his body and Percy was quickly bound.   
Robes were used as makeshift bindings and his weapon was gingerly taken by the red-headed man. Those who had grabbed Percy's arms furrowed their brows at how stiff the human felt. His arms didn’t feel like dense muscle or even thick armour hidden under his coat. It felt like plates of bone, smooth and unnatural. 

“He ain’t human. But if he be a demon, he’s a weak one at that.” One of them commented. 

“Whatever ye be, consider yourself lucky we don’t have time to deal with ya.” The red-head stated.

Percy’s head hung low, even as he was hoisted to his feet. Blood dripped through his hair, into his eyes and his gasping mouth. Then he went quiet. His expression when he finally looked up felt like staring into a snakes nest in the dark. “I’d say that goes both ways.”

He didn’t bother putting up a fight. As they walked, those closest to him could hear him muttering once again to himself. 

“You promised me.” 

If the shadows seemed darker as the procession made their way to the jail, nobody said a word.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Yep, that was a casting of Friends on the inn keeper.  
> 2) Three guesses what that shadowy thing is (also, the dreams from the Briarwood Arch were just yes)   
> 3) Imagine standing next to a stove in a winter jacket.  
> 4) Shadow and/or Possessed Percy is an aesthetic and you can't stop me.


End file.
